Kismet
by Ameba
Summary: Shiki and Rima, gorgeous, world famous models, once best of friends. Once, until they were seperated. Only Pocky could bring them together.
1. Fire

It was, perhaps, his first memory.

Creak, creak. The incessant, quiet groaning of the swing that badly needed oiling was in a way, peaceful. He listened to its rhythm, trying to find a recurring pattern in its beat. Creak, creak.

Suddenly, a peal of delightful laughter broke through the monotony. The boy looked up, not startled, but out of habit. Yes, it was them…the other children in the sandbox. The elegant girl with wispy hair was laughing at a mortified looking blonde cherub with icy, aqua eyes. The fiery redhead was pulling them apart, trying to amend the friendly bickering.

They were always there, playing blissfully, without a care in the world. He listened to them laugh, and a feeling he could never put a finger on finally registered. There was no doubt about it.

The boy was lonely.

* * *

Shiki's POV

"Shiki san!" a sharp cry pulled me back from my reverie. The annoyed voice continued, bombarding me with criticisms. "Modeling is not a time for daydreaming! You have to ENCHANT people through your expression, your eyes!! Look at you! Show me some fire, some spirit!! Modeling is a job, NOT something you can blow off!!"

Fire? What fire? Modeling was truly a waste of time, something that was trivial, yet amusing enough to fill my hours of tedium. Then again, time has no value when you're only one step from immortality. "Shiki san, please look this way." "Shiki san, tilt your head a little to the left, please." "Shiki san, move your hand this way, and don't blink." The instructions were all the same, whispered in hushed tones. It seemed like the humans noticed I was, in a way, unearthly, inhuman…The murmurs all blended into one, and I imagined myself as a still doll, a motionless mannequin…lost in my thoughts once again.

"SHIKI SAN!!! WILL YOU STOP FINGERING THAT NECKLACE?!!!" My manager snapped at me, exasperated, yet unable to say anything. I smirked. We had made an agreement the very first day – as long nobody touched that necklace, our contract was on. The necklace stayed with me, or else I would resign. I made that point very clear – it was my most valuable possession.

I sighed, and dropped my hand. Fine, Fine. Fire is what Mashiro san wanted, right? That's what she'll get. I lifted my head, and put on a nonchalant expression, but I let my light cerulean eyes smolder. There were sharp intakes of breath, as people gasped, unable to hide their ogling. Even Mashiro san was speechless.

In a way, this was my own little revenge…for what?

I immediately chided myself for my stupidity, letting my emotions slip so easily. To be woken in the middle of a heavenly slumber in the afternoon just for this shoot – ugh. To be under the bright sun, no matter how uncomfortable – even worse.

But, that wasn't the reason I was so irritated.

It was because I was hungry.


	2. Addiction

Hello Everbody!!

I just wanted to say thanks to everyone who has supported me!!

Please Enjoy and Review.

* * *

Addiction

The girl trailed after the laughing threesome, quiet and observant. To an extent, they were her friends, but she rarely talked, no, the girl just watched with her unfathomable sapphire eyes. She chose not to play with them, though they weren't the boorish, fragile human children she was wary of breaking. A slight breeze played with her hair, caressing the silky tresses of gold that glittered in the sunshine. The girl looked up sharply – along with the capricious breeze carried the heavenly scent of cinnamon…and the groaning of a creaky swing.

A lone boy with messy, tousled wine-red hair was idly swinging on the swings, looking small…and something she couldn't quite figure out – she tried to find the right word for his expression: Melancholy. That was it.

The boy met her curious gaze with stunned eyes.

Cerulean melted with cobalt, and she never looked away.

* * *

Rima's POV

**Drug ****[****druhg****]****:** A substance used recreationally for perceived desirable effects on personality, perception, or behavior.

It was evening already, and my sleeping patterns were screwed because of the harrowing fashion show yesterday. The sunlight wasn't harsh; the only remnants of its glory were the fiery tinted hues of the sky. I cautiously let the French windows in my apartment open, feeling the breeze lightly tickle my face. The wind blew the open pages of the dictionary into disarray. As I stopped the constant flapping, the definition caught my eye, and I smiled. So it really was – you could call it an addiction.

It was beautiful outside. The lazy fingers of the sun touched the eclectic furniture around the room: the champagne flutes, the crystal tank with goldfish, the ceiling to floor windows. I looked around, absentmindedly smoothing the crisp bedcovers. There was emptiness in this apartment, my haven. There was no one to talk to, and work meant further isolation. It temporarily occupied the gap in my heart, but could never fill it. The smiles, the polite conversations were never _me_. They were forced, fake, and counterfeit. Why didn't anybody notice the true me crying out silently?

The flutter of the flight of the pigeons broke the silence that settled.

Yes, there was me, the birds, and –

I gently pressed my lips to the jeweled ring on my thumb.

And him. This time, I smiled a heartfelt smile. Forever.

I quickly shook my head, blinking away the starting tears from my eyes, dispelling the sadness.

There was only one thing that could lift my spirits – and there was only a broken stick left in the last package.


	3. Disguise

Disguise

The creaking of the swing abruptly stopped, and the boy broke the trance, immediately looking away under the girl's scrutinizing gaze, a bright flush of pink coloring his cheeks.

He didn't know what to think, let alone what say. Just that the girl was…

Beautiful, that was it.

He felt her eyes searching him, up and down, up and down. He stared at the dirt, her image imprinted on his mind. Fragile, porcelain skin, a tiny little frown, bright, questioning eyes, as if she saw through him, saw the depths of his forlorn, abandoned heart.

He couldn't do anything – her stare was too much. It was electric, too much for him to receive, to take in.

Too much.

Then, she came towards him.

* * *

There wasn't much Shiki could do.

After hailing a taxi, he ducked his head to avoid stares and ogling because of his unusual chestnut hair, because he knew what chaos would ensue. Suddenly, people on the street would realize that he was a world famous super model. Screaming fan girls swarming around him like bees, like ants, countless, endless, and faceless. Plus there were no bodyguards, either. It also didn't help that his face was plastered along buildings, modeling for some luxury merchandise that no one would ever buy.

"And this was a convenient time to be hungry." Shiki thought uneasily. The overwhelming human scents stifled him.

"Nearest grocery store from here, please." Shiki rummaged in his pocket and pulled out some money, handing it to the taxi driver. He pulled out a navy colored army hat and tried to hide his hair as best possible. Avoiding the taxi driver's strange, glances, he proceeded to pull out a pair of oversized sunglasses.

There. If he wanted to hide, this was the perfect disguise.

The taxi shuddered to a stop, and Shiki stepped out onto the street.

* * *

Rima sighed.

She stared at herself in the mirror, unsatisfied with what she saw. She was recognizable, a little too _recognizable_. Bright orange hair, or strawberry blond, she preferred, stood out too much. China blue eyes, vivid and bright, didn't help either. The languid, fluid way she walked would earn her questionable glances. Unless….she thought back to the movie she watched last night, or morning, she should say. Yazuka…street urchins….rebellious…she remembered snippets of words…..and Rima's lips curved up at the corners, lips like wet pink satin petals, a mischievous, devastating grin.

Rima laughed, and she flitted toward the bathroom, readying her contact lenses and hairspray, and her outfit – _If_ she could find in her vast expanse of a closet.


	4. Strangers

This hasn't been updated in a while…er…sorry? I guess I just kind of lost motivation…ideas, LOL. If you have any nice ideas or if you liked this, please enlighten (!) me

* * *

**Strangers Again**

That annoying tinkling sound couldn't stop right? The elderly store owner pondered about taking off the bell and throwing it violently in the trash……it used to be whenever that door opened, he would perk up, eager for customers of any kind, perfecting his "Welcome to our humble grocery store smile". He glanced at the customer….no, not customers anymore. Just unruly street punks, rebellious teenagers with multiple tattoos and an assortment of facial piercings. He shuddered inwardly at the thought. What happened to this generation's youth?

You see, back when _he _was young, lively….and not crippled with arthritis, he was dashing and charming…or not. It was too long ago for him to remember. Or maybe he deluded himself into thinking that. Or maybe the memories were just too painful. After all, he had spent all his time at the library…

See? Exactly his point. The person who just came in looked like just your friendly neighborhood stalker or creeper. Complete was his outfit, down to the tinted sunglasses, dark trench coat, and scarf that covered his face.

The door bell rang again.

This time, the old man was serious. That thing HAD to go. If only he could get up from his chair behind the counter. Somehow, he did manage to tangle himself out of the mess, and took hesitating steps to the door….and stopped in his tracks.

The neighborhood gang was recruiting punk CHILDREN?

The boy would have been pretty, beautiful, drop dead…er…gorgeous, if only he had done without that nasty sneer on his face, filled with contempt and disdain. And orange hair! Did he bleach it? His hair looked long, disheveled, with blonde highlights. Kids these days….

He was probably going to have a heart attack soon.

* * *

Shiki started to worry.

The store owner was looking at him with a mix of disgust and alarm. Was he too conspicuous? Did he think that…..that he was a pervert? Like a neighborhood peeper? A pedophile?

That was exactly what Shiki wanted.

And he started laughing, delighting in his newfound anonymity, grasping for the counter lest he fell down…a perv… He tried to stomach his laughter, covering his face with one hand. Yet through the humor, he felt depressed. Once again, he had reverted back to his childhood…unloved, despised, and alone. Always alone.

Through the disguise of laughter, Shiki wiped away tears of hilarity or misery…he could no longer tell.

* * *

Rima looked up, surprised.

Accompanying the stupid tinkling was the sound of laughter, or more like muffled snickering. Some guy was leaning against the counter, holding it for support, choking at some joke. His eyes were blocked by dark sunglasses, but one could tell that his stature was one that guys now would envy, managers would brag obnoxiously over green organic salads with their competitors. His coat and hat were also designer, casually thrown on in a hurry.

Whatever. He was just another guy…yet, she sensed discomfort in his mirth…like hidden grief he kept buried in his heart. Or it was just her imagination. Whatever it was, it wasn't Rima's problem.

Pocky would always solve the problem.


End file.
